


Still Only Mine

by librarybooks



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Companion Piece, M/M, Pre-Slash, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, but eddie still loves him, it 2019? never happened, lowkey gay awakenings, modern au i guess, rated t for kids who swear way too much, they just kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-18 00:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21502138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarybooks/pseuds/librarybooks
Summary: He’s not a saint, Eddie knows — he’s a prick. Saints don’t wear Hawaiian shirts or make jokes about sleeping with your mom.In which Eddie makes a valiant attempt at doing his homework, and Richie is — well,Richie.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 159





	Still Only Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slytherinski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherinski/gifts).



> hehe I wrote this as a companion to [Nay's beautiful art](https://twitter.com/naydcasart/status/1202635084018438144), just a short little snippet because we love these boys very much
> 
> title is from [Eddie My Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J7c_6ieoTDM) by The Teen Queens, but the linked cover is by The Chordettes! <3

“This seat taken?”

Eddie startles at the interruption, his shoulders jerking to meet his ears. He’s hunched over, surprised enough that he probably looks like a dipshit, which is just great.

_Christ._

His fingers twitched at the voice, and his pen had fallen out of his hand on reflex. It rolls across his textbook, chasing down the curve of the pages like water droplets.

“Eduardo?”

The speaker’s inflection is familiar; it’s teasing, like they’re not asking for permission so much as announcing their presence. The words are chirped with singsong carelessness, pitched in a mockery of a soprano. It’s a playful jab at Eddie’s carefully constructed peace.

He hadn’t heard them approach, but that voice — oh, that fucking _voice._ He’d recognize it anywhere, sooner than hearing his own.

Jesus. He’s _trying_ to study.

Eddie sighs, a long, miserable thing. He dredges air from the deepest recesses of his lungs, and it carries the world-weary weight of a man who has not slept in a very long time.

“What do you want, Rich?”

He doesn’t look up as he speaks. Eddie leans across his papers to retrieve his pen — it’s wedged itself in a divot in the table, and he has to use his pinky to dislodge it. 

A shadow passes over his notebook. It wavers, distant as a drifting cloud, until it obstructs his writing almost completely. Ruled lines blur beneath the dark grey smudge.

“What do I want?” A chuckle. Eddie can’t tell if the sound of Richie’s laughter is something he enjoys or abhors — it makes his breath sit heavy in his chest. He sounds like a fucking supervillain. “Nothin’ at all, Eddie my man. Nothin’ at all. Just — ”

The shade shifts across his paper until the vague shape of a person takes form. It’s little more than a bust, a mimicry of a head and torso. Eddie pauses in his scribbling, glancing up as Richie tosses his backpack onto the bench. He hops up beside it, squatting on the tabletop like an uncoordinated sparrow. “ — Wanted to keep you company. That cool?”

No, it’s not. Eddie has homework to do.

He opens his mouth to say as much. To frown, maybe, or to tell him to _fuck off,_ but his speech is abruptly severed. Richie’s startling grin greets him, as white and flashy as ever. His lips curve, plush as pink pillows, and his nose scrunches beneath his too-large glasses. They perch on the wrinkled ridges, moving as if they’re part of his face.

“Fine,” Eddie finds himself saying. He forms the words as if on autopilot. His gaze tracks over his form, lounging on the table like the woman from _Titanic_ , before they flicker back to catch his eyes. “That’s fine.”

Richie slouches, lazily pleased. He has terrible posture; his shoulders curl forward, rumpling his tee at the waist. Chocolate curls cascade by his temples, twirling just above his ears. His eyes twinkle behind his lenses, bright with mischief. 

It’s maybe not normal to stare at your best friend like this, but Eddie can’t help it. His attention is drawn like a goddamn magnet, and his only fumbling excuse is that Richie’s face is annoying. He can’t help but watch him when the late afternoon glow casts a harsh light on his skin, illuminating him like a fucking saint.

On anyone else, it would be cherubic; on Richie, it’s impish. He’s not a saint, Eddie knows — he’s a prick. A Trashmouth. Saints don’t wear Hawaiian shirts or make jokes about fucking your mom. He’d be booted out of heaven for indecency.

Eddie scowls at the thought, edging himself away. He bumps Richie’s beaten up backpack where it sprawls next to him, as haphazard as its owner. It looks like a wild animal had attacked it, all dull green and patched with loose strings, as if an idle attempt had been made at reparations. Richie’s dangling foot nearly knocks it off the bench.

His legs are spindly, decorated with Band-Aids and bruises; spots of his skin resemble the mottled purple of the victims in zombie movies — the ones who barely get away. Eddie has to wonder if Bowers took a spiked bat to his shins or something. Rich needs to learn some basic first aid.

Miles of bracelets decorate his wrists. They’re knotted, colorful monstrosities, all twisted in bits of yarn. Eddie wants to grab one just so it digs into Richie’s arm, to tug and leave a small mark, like a reminder. It’s his version of initials carved into tree branches and old names on the kissing bridge. _Eddie was here._

 _Fucking idiot_ , Eddie thinks. The sentiment is more fond than he’s inclined to admit. Richie’s shirt is a hideous pattern, his shorts don’t match, and his socks — _what the fuck are his socks_ — 

“See something you like?” Richie interrupts, derailing his train of thought. His lashes flutter as he winks, curving over his cheekbone, and _fuck_ , what the hell is Eddie doing?

What _the hell_ is Eddie _doing_?

He tears his gaze away from the ever-so-faint freckles splashed across his friend’s nose. Mortification floods his entire being, although for the life of him, Eddie cannot imagine why. It’s just Richie, for Christ’s sake. What the fuck?

_What the fuck?_

“Absolutely not,” Eddie sniffs. His focus remains trained on his book, although his notes read like illegible scrawl, now. He couldn’t fucking study if he tried. _Richie’s fault._ “I was thinking about how ugly you are.”

A coo escapes Richie’s mouth, like this is a genuine compliment.

“Aw, Eds,” his simpering smile makes Eddie want to punch him. He traces his finger around his chin, posing. _Loser._ “You’re so sweet. Didn’t your mama ever tell you it’s impolite to stare?” One eyebrow twitches. It lifts, slight, whenever Richie’s gearing up for an offensive joke. “Unless it’s at her ass, cause, you know — ”

Eddie stifles a strangled noise in his throat. _Ew. Eugh._ Talking about his mother in explicit terms will trigger his asthma, because why would he ever imagine — who would even _think_ of that shit? Eddie gives fuck all whether his medicines are placebos, whether his inhaler is fake. With this topic of conversation, he’ll start gasping for air on command.

Yeah. Richard Tozier is about as close to sainthood as he is to going mute and swearing life-long celibacy.

“Shut the fuck up, first of all,” Eddie coughs, leveling Richie with a sharp stare. “Please, for the sake of my health. Shut the fuck up.”

Richie makes a tutting sound, as if disappointed. The grin never leaves his face. “Dramatic, dramatic.” The dimples in his cheeks deepen, which strikes Eddie as unfair. 

Dimples are a dollop of cream, sweet and round. Dimples are cute, and it’s _Richie_. Richie’s not allowed to be cute. He’s certainly not allowed to be _sweet_. 

A breath of wind whistles through the trees. The leaves brush against one another, exchanging whispers high above. They ripple across the grass, rustling the pages of Eddie’s books and tousling Richie’s hair. An errant curl twists along the top of his frames.

Eddie turns away, his neck flushed with heat. He fixes on the hieroglyphs of his notes, eyes tracking and retracing the curve of his pen on the paper.

It’s useless. Christ.

Eddie doesn’t understand what the fuck he’s reading. His heartbeat is loud in his ears, mimicking a rushing tsunami in his veins. It sings beneath his skin, tingling pins and needles that stab him. Static bleeds behind his lids every time he blinks, as if Eddie is staring at a malfunctioning television.

Maybe he’ll die, and wouldn’t that be something? Not even a terminal illness to send him off. His mother would be livid.

Alright. It’s okay. _This is normal._ It’s a reasonable bodily reaction to hanging out with your intolerable best friend. This is fine.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Eddie says at last, to fill the quiet. At least if Richie speaks, if he distracts him, Eddie can remember all the reasons why he’s the most irritating person to walk the planet. “I hope you contract a disease and it makes you lose the ability to speak.”

_This is fine._

He can hear the smile in Richie’s voice. He imagines the flash of white teeth and pink mouth as he laughs good-naturedly. “I’ll wax poetic about you instead if you want, baby.”

This is not fine. Eddie doesn’t want that. He doesn’t.

Does he?

“I absolutely do not want that,” Eddie nods, decisive. He issues his sternest glare, and his nails clack against the tabletop. He considers gouging trenches into the wood, just to feel something. Anything. “Wax your fucking eyebrows instead.”

Richie brings his hand to his chest, the portrait of a Victorian woman clutching her pearls. His voice adopts a lilt, and it’s the worst rendition of a Southern belle Eddie has ever heard. “You’re playing me like this? How cruel.” He swings his foot near the place where Eddie’s arm rests. “You’re a heart-breaker, my Eds.”

“Good,” Eddie says. He shifts to avoid the sole of Richie’s shoe. “Stop calling me that.”

Richie’s leg moves again, his aim bettering with every launch. His stockinged toe brushes Eddie’s shoulder. “You like it,” he chortles, and isn’t he just the worst? Kicking out with his dirty ass shoes, covered in germs, what the fuck is wrong with him? Eddie hates it.

Richie looks absurdly pleased as Eddie scowls, as if earning his ire is equivalent to winning the lottery. 

“Jesus — fuck _off_ , Rich, seriously,” he dusts off his arm, scooting an inch or two away from Richie’s flailing limbs. He ignores the path their conversation has taken with a huff. “If you’re gonna stay here, sit on the fucking bench like a normal person.”

“Hell fuckin’ no.” Richie’s foot braces against his backpack. At least it’s not touching _Eddie_ , God. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Eddie squeezes his pen. The ballpoint pushes into the paper, bending only as cheap plastic does. It dots Eddie’s notes with dribbles of ink. He swipes it with a brush of his thumb, staining the pad blue. “You’re so dumb.”

“Yeah? You know where I’d rather sit?”

Sunlight burns behind Richie, blinding yellow. He’s a long, lanky thing; his twig of a body casts a shadow the width of a toothpick, but he still manages to obscure Eddie’s homework. He makes no effort to move. 

Eddie frowns. It’s a solid, firm line, flattening his lips. “Don’t even start.” 

Richie leans back on his palms. His fingers flex against the wood, like a cat kneading a pillow. He clicks his tongue. It’s a disheartened sound that Eddie knows is fake. “So mean, Eds,” Richie reaches across the table, as if to bump his hand. “So, so mean. I was gonna say — ”

“I _know_ what you were gonna say,” Eddie yanks his pen back, dragging a line of blue across the paper. He smacks Richie away, quick as a viper strike.

The lingering touch of their skin prickles in his fingertips. His nerve endings are burning or something, sending anxiety and electricity thrumming in his veins. _Shit._ Eddie rubs his palm on his thigh. “And if I have to listen to you talk about — about fucking my mom _one more time_ — ” 

“What?” Richie’s mouth curves in a crescent moon, so sharp and Cheshire that it could actually be frightening. A bark of laughter bursts out of him, boisterous as a drunkard. “Jealous?”

Jealous. Why the fuck would Eddie ever be _jealous_ ? He’ll keel over and die before he ever decides to be _jealous_ of — of who? His own _mother_?

Richie’s dangling feet bump the wooden bench. His sandals — _sandals_ , this motherfucker is wearing weed socks with _sandals_ — scratch the grain, dislodging flaky shards of paint. Little maroon flecks decorate his toe.

“You’re disgusting, Tozier,” Eddie wrinkles his nose. This picnic table is ancient, there’s probably lead and asbestos sunken deep into the wood stain — “Hell no.”

“Hell _yes_.”

“I swear to — ” Eddie’s hands curl in his lap. His fingers tighten until the skin pulls taut across his knuckles. He could easily be persuaded to start a fist fight, just to swing and knock some sense into Richie’s unhinged jaw. “Do you ever stop?”

For once, Richie doesn’t deign to respond. His forehead furrows, and he sucks in his lower lip, gnawing on it. The lack of a witty retort does little to diminish the glee on his face. 

It’s like he _wants_ to be kicked in his nether regions. Eddie has had enough.

He crosses his arms over his chest, fingers pressing shallow indentations in his biceps. The pressure is gentle, hardly there, but it’s grounding. “What the fuck are you laughing at?”

This time, the answer comes quick. It’s faster than a blink and accompanied by a laugh, sweet as sugar-coated candy. “You, Eds.”

 _Richie’s not allowed to be sweet,_ Eddie recalls his own observation somewhat sourly. His heart does funny little flips behind his ribs, like the tiny frogs he and Rich used to capture in the summertime.

That’s genuine mirth reflected in his friend’s expression, pulled upwards in the corners of his grin. The playfulness, the kindness, the fucking stupidity of it all — it’s as real as anything. “You’re adorable when you’re angry.”

Eddie pauses. _Fuck._

Richie speaks without malice, which is worse. If he was just being an asshole, at least Eddie could respond in kind by cutting his dick off, or something. But he’s not; Eddie would be able to tell.

It makes him feel strange. _Richie_ makes him feel strange, like there’s something in his chest, or he’s breaking out in hives. The thick length of his eyelashes fluttering along his bone, the pucker of his mouth when he swears — it’s lewd and horrible. Visualizing it is enough to color Eddie’s cheeks in unflattering shades of red.

What in the name of fuck is wrong with him?

“Don’t call me Eds,” he manages, with some difficulty. It sounds weak even to his own ears. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in time. Eddie wonders if he’ll choke on his own tongue.

At his side, Richie still chuckles. It’s a low rumble, deeper than it was just last year; the soft sound is foreign in his throat, as if his own body is unused to making noises that aren’t explicit.

“Whatever you say,” Richie’s eyes crinkle, like it’s not the end of the fucking world for Eddie, like he’s not absolutely killing him with every flash of his bright white grin. “ _Eds_.”

Eddie’s innards twist in knots, and he thinks if he was torn open his guts would look like a gruesome Christmas bow.

It’s jarring, awful, and entirely familiar.

Christ. _Christ._

Richie is the worst. He’s the worst, because he’s irritating and careless — a shit-eating, vulgar human being with no regard for how he’s perceived. Obscenities exude from him, like Richie’s a fucking diffuser of profanities or something. He’s rude, crass, and decidedly not funny.

Eddie might love him. Maybe. And isn’t that romantic?

Richie’s pretty — _he’s so fucking pretty_ — because he’s all foolishness and crooked grins, sharing a private joke with nobody but himself. Eddie thinks he might be the only one who notices it, and he doesn’t understand how. Richie laughs, and the faint freckles on his nose fall like paint splatter. His hair curls just so, a mockery of a cherub.

He likes the way his eyes twinkle and bunch at the corners. His glasses are buglike and unbecoming, but they’re classically Richie, and Eddie thinks that means something. 

He isn’t sure how to parse this information. Not yet.

Richie turns to Eddie, then, his mouth twisting. The tilt of his head blocks the light, casting chocolate-colored locks in a halo. The orange of his shirt seems to burn, glowing in the brightness like a flare. _Obnoxious._

“You zone out or something, Eduardo?”

He’s so _stupid_ looking, his lips curled and his brows cocked. Always anticipating a punchline. Eddie glances away from him, squinting downward. Maybe if he pinches his skin hard enough, if he tightens his fists so his nails prick his palms — maybe he’ll be able to think straight.

 _Straight,_ Eddie considers. The irony isn’t lost on him _._

For a beat, there’s nothing. Only silence, the rustle of leaves and college-ruled notebook pages. His homework — ah. Well, Eddie can do that later. His pen rolls to lodge itself in the tabletop, forgotten.

Then there’s a push. It’s a gentle prod, fleeting as Richie’s fingertip jabs his shoulder. Eddie locks his attention on that single point, an anchor to draw him down to earth. His lashes quiver as he cracks one eye to peer at him.

“You good, man?” Richie mouth curves, slow. It’s almost hesitant as it dances across his face.

This one is real, bigger than twitching amusement playing along his lips. It extends from his dimples to the deepest part of his soul, like a flower blooming in spring. He grins at Eddie with more than his lips, like he’s the fucking sun, or a star, or some planet in the nebulous vortex that’s the universe, and Eddie thinks: _well, maybe it’s okay._

Because Richie’s smile — it’s directed at him.

Eddie doesn’t know what that means, really. Should it be a big deal? Should he be embarrassed of it?

He can’t be sure why it matters, or why the focus of Richie’s catching smirk is something he craves. But he knows, deep within the furthest crevices of his heart: if that grin is for Eddie alone, if it peaks like this for nobody else, it’s alright.

_It’s alright._

Eddie exhales once. His uneasiness vacates him in a sigh, heavy with the worries he’s not ready to pursue. His lungs are lighter as he breathes in and out, releasing tension he didn’t know he held. The crease between his brows softens.

“Rich,” Eddie says, facing him.

Richie perks up at the call of his name. He turns with a slight jerk of his chin, meeting Eddie’s gaze. His cheeks stretch ever wider, like he’s been given a gift.

_Stupid._

Eddie’s lips part, soft. He feels slightly out of touch with his sense of self, like his mouth is made of crushed petals and candy. He studies his best friend intently, stare trained on the slope of Richie’s nose. A light dusting of pink adorns the bridge, cast by late afternoon shadow.

This is Richie. _His_ Richie, Eddie knows. It fills him with a joy that he doesn’t have the experience to parse.

His own cheer grows, incessant. Inevitable. Richie’s humor is contagious, and Eddie’s about to catch the fucking plague.

“Rich,” he says again.

Warm brown curls wriggle over Richie’s brow, tangling in his glasses. “Yeah, Eds?”

The ridges of the wooden bench make indents on Eddie’s thighs. It itches, wholly distracting as Richie’s legs still swing. His sandaled feet narrowly avoid the slumped shape of his backpack. This time, Eddie doesn’t move.

He regards the table and his pile of abandoned notes. Then he looks at Richie, observing as the sun glances over the arc of his shoulder. The dwindling rays are intense, clinging to the last vestiges of August heat. A golden sheet washes them in warmth. 

Reality is distorted here. They exist in a bubble that’s _elsewhere_ , a place where Eddie can stare and Richie doesn’t mind. 

A place where Richie could look back, maybe. One day. 

“Ah — nevermind,” Eddie mutters, contemplative. A tentative smile makes itself known at his thoughts; it’s genuine, the truest expression he’s given. His teeth are brilliant in the burgeoning dusk, brief and vibrant as a shooting star. “It’s nothing.”

 _Nothing_ , he thinks as Richie grins back. It’s brighter than anything Eddie has ever seen. _Nothing at all._

* * *

_Tell me your love is still only mine._

— The Teen Queens

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first foray into the IT fandom and it's ABOUT TIME because wbk reddie deserves love. that being said I've been writing harry potter for so long I don't know how to write anything else oops
> 
> thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed <3


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